


Mair braw than when they’re fine

by middlemarch



Category: The Hour
Genre: Bloody Mary References, F/M, Halloween, Mirrors, Post-Canon, Romance, Seasonal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 07:44:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Bel was relieved it was not a costume party they'd been invited to.





	Mair braw than when they’re fine

“Are you looking to find out who your husband will be?” Freddie asked, so close his breath tickled her ear. She hadn’t heard him creeping up behind her, her mind wandering as she slipped in the earring’s post, and she would have jumped at his question if he hadn’t also laid a hand on her waist.

“Bloody hell, Freddie,” she said, her tone warmer than the words would have suggested. She saw his grin in the looking glass’s reflection, every feature sharply drawn though shadows collected around them. “Why would I do that? When I already know the answer.”

He laughed then, stepping closer and she could feel how he needed her for balance. This time of night, his leg always hurt though he rarely complained. It was a small, secret consolation of his injury, that she could so much savor feeling strong, her own two legs solid and sure. To be a woman like an oak and not any flower.

“Are you a witch then? Whispering incantations in the night, keeping a familiar,” he went on, clearly enjoying himself, waiting to be brought up short.

“None of it. You’re simply a terrible house-maid,” she said smartly, as she was meant to. He liked repartee, did Freddie, badinage, wit and cleverness and all at lightning speed. Except when he didn’t. When he wanted something direct, something that was as simple as a vanilla custard or the very milky tea young children were given, something he’d never ask for except with his dropped lashes, a hand run through his perpetually tousled hair, left rubbing his slightly bowed neck.

“Terrible?” he repeated.

“Horrid. Sloppy and forgetful and not at all bothering to even make a pretense at subterfuge. The box was virtually in plain sight,” Bel said, screwing in the other earring and turning to face him. There was a little time left before they were supposed to go out, which must have been why he chose this moment to tease. To ask questions he already knew the answers to.

“In my handkerchief drawer,” he pointed out. “I could hardly have expected you to go pawing through there.”

“I’m an investigative journalist, you darling fool,” Bel said.

“Not only that, I believe,” he said lightly, resting his other hand at her waist. Once they might have danced like this, they had, drunk on cheap red wine and the late, hot night. Now, she would not have moved for the world, knowing she was his axis and glorying in it.

“You needn’t believe,” she said, pausing to watch his eyes, the curve of his lips. “You know.”

“I believe any number of things, Bel. Ghosts, witches, wishes come true, I’ve learned I believe in them all, he said, leaning in for the kiss she was waiting to give. A shadow flickered in the glass behind them, the shimmer of a woman’s eyes full of tears or a crow’s wing, but neither of them noticed; the shiver across Bel’s neck only made her hold Freddie closer and that was all he believed in just then.

**Author's Note:**

> A seasonal dalliance with Bel and Freddie. The title from Robert Burns's classic "Halloween" poem.


End file.
